Straight on till Morning
by Vescaus
Summary: On the hunt for a killer, John can't help but think of Sherlock as the boy who never grew up.


Straight on till Morning  
By Vescaus

Being in Afghanistan was like enduring a never-ending anaerobic exercise scheme. There were periods of languid waiting, wallowing in the heat and melancholy. It would be followed by intense bursts of adrenaline, of gunshots and fire, of blood and screams, which made John wish for the return of those blessed quiet moments, where he could hear himself think.

However, of course, in the quiet times, John wished for the action. There was little for a soldier to do without a battle. In those times, he read. The compound had a library, filled with donated and abandoned books. He always picked the children's books because their fantasy worlds were yet another escape from the reality of Afghanistan…which, really, had been an escape from the reality of home.

So, he couldn't help at one point think it ironic, as he picked up Peter Pan almost twenty years later. Fate mocked him slightly by offering him the chance to read the book his mother had first used to help him sleep during his mundane childhood in a far off country on the other side of the world.

However, John has been living with Sherlock for a number of months now and even though Sherlock Holmes is the smartest man he had ever known, he does find it similar to enduring Afghanistan all over again: periods of languid wallowing as Sherlock despairs at the lack of criminal activity followed by periods of intensely relentless pursuit of the suddenly re-emerged criminal class.

And it must be nice, John thinks, to live how you like without the responsibility society inflicts on you as an adult. John wishes he could forget about rent, utility bills, phone bills, jobs and income tax; all those things Sherlock conveniently put in a box a long time ago, labelled it 'dull' and kept it the attic of his mind. John wishes he can be bluntly brazen with people like Sherlock and not care about the consequences simply because you were exceptional in some way. However, John's not exceptional.

In many ways, Sherlock was like a child prodigy. He either didn't want to grow up or hadn't quite accepted that he should do.

* * *

Now that he'd hit that nail on the head, John continues to watch in amusement (from the safety of the kitchen) at the sibling rivalry between Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes. It never ceases to amaze him how the two brothers had managed to transform bickering into a subtle but still juvenile art form.

He'd decides to stay out of it this morning, deciding, as he reaches the living room and sees the brothers once again engaged in a staring contest, to retreat to the kitchen. If it was not noon, it was too early to attempt a retort at whatever remark might be thrown his way as a tactical device.

"It hardly sounds stimulating," Sherlock finally answers, deadpanned.

_I don't want to play_.

Mycroft simply laughs. "Come now, Sherlock. You have nothing pressing at the moment. All I'm asking you to do is find this man before Friday."

_You really should get outside more. It's unhealthy._

Sherlock picks up his violin; John has hidden the bow. "You're jumping to conclusions incredibly quickly in that this might be a kidnapping. From what you have told me, it seems quite likely that your Mr Parnell will turn up at the doorstep a few thousand pounds poorer but none worse for wear."

Mycroft shook his head. "Pay attention, Sherlock. For all his vices, Graham Parnell would never engage in such activities when he has a _mission. _It would be like a boxer fornicating before a fight."

John almost spits out his tea.

Sherlock's eyes flicker over to him in amusement before he flops back on the sofa in frustration. "I don't see why you can't handle this yourself."

"I do not engage in these activities, Sherlock, I hire people to do them for me. Besides, I can't possibly do anything today even if I had to; I have very important meetings all day."

"Hmm, and yet you've managed to find the time to make a visit instead of calling me."

Mycroft's face twists slightly. "Time is of the essence, Sherlock."

"Well, of course, it is Thursday," his brother responds sardonically. "What heartening meal is on the club whilst you conduct your meetings – sorry, read your periodicals. Don't want you to lapse on that diet." Sherlock raises an eyebrow, always the first to drag the argument down into petty insults.

Mycroft, older, never rises to the bait his brother dangles before him. However, he does briefly look at John with an expression of exaggerated helplessness.

Then there is silence as the two brothers glare at each other and John's eyes dart back and forth between them. He wonders if they are so good at reading each other that there is no more need for words. They are practically arguing telepathically, predicting each other's comments and responding back through facial expression.

"John, you seem to be the only one able to get through to my obstinate brother," Mycroft interrupts, breaking the staring contest after a few moments to smile at him wryly. "See if you can convince him."

Great, John thinks to himself, now Mycroft was dragging him into the conversation as if he had gone to tell on Sherlock to some parental figure and gain an authoritative ally. John swallows his tea and was about to interject neutrally that he can't force Sherlock to do anything against his will but he is interrupted.

"Do not manipulate John into doing your work," Sherlock spits, his tone slightly icier, eyes piercing. "Just because you cannot convince me, don't suppose other people can do it for you. Getting lazy in your old age?"

"Play nice, Sherlock," John replies, holding up his hands in surrender as Sherlock whips round to glare. "I'm sure it wouldn't kill you to look into it."

"Oh, even more reason not to bother then," Sherlock mutters.

"Excellent!" Mycroft interjects happily, as if an agreeable solution has been reached. He leaves the file on the table, seemingly ignoring the way in which John and Sherlock are staring at each other. "I shall leave this in your capable hands, Sherlock. And please try not to get yourself killed."

Sherlock wastes no time in rounding on John as soon as Mycroft has elegantly left the flat. "Why would you side with him!" he cries in disbelief, morphing the situation into a question of good and evil. As if John was choosing between God and the Devil.

Taking a more earthly and less hyperbolic comparison, John can't shake the thought that playground politics are at work: the boy who is upset that his friend had abandoned and betrayed him to join with the cool, grown up kids.

As usual, John then has to listen to some rather erratic and schizophrenic violin playing, strings attacked ruthlessly with his nimble fingers. In Sherlock's mind, where words fail (and cursing is just beneath him) harsh diatonic notes suitably convey his mood.

John supposes it is a better reaction than throwing things in a tantrum.

* * *

The ridiculous thing about the whole situation, John concludes, is that even though Sherlock petulantly refuses Mycroft's request every time, they inevitably end up running around London in the freezing cold. Sherlock chases clue after clue no matter where it took them. They had flittered all their money away on taxis and were now forced to travel on the underground in their haphazard journey across London to trace Parnell's movements the night before, starting with his house.

John had always hated the district line, the most inferior of all the underground lines.

"Why is everybody pushing?" Sherlock asks, as he stumbles back into John, who miraculously manages to prevent both of them from falling embarrassingly against other frustrated commuters.

"Because it's rush hour, Sherlock," John replies quietly, aware of the glances being curiously aimed in their direction. "People want to get home as soon as possible."

"I don't want to get home; I want to get to a potential crime scene."

Once again, John ignores the more curious stares further down the carriage. "Well, you should carry more cash with you. I'm not your personal ATM."

"No, I don't carry cash," Sherlock replies dismissively. "It weighs down my wallet."

The train doors finally close and it pulls off. Sherlock stumbles again at the district line's treacherous track journey and John rolls his eyes. "Hold onto something," he advises as Sherlock grabs his jacket. "Not me."

"I don't really see the point. There are enough people crammed in here to keep me upright. Anyone would think this train was heading to a concentration camp, the amount of people on it."

John grimaces and Sherlock looks at him in bewilderment. "No?"

"Holocaust references?" John whispers as quietly as possible. "_Never _good."

It must be wonderful, John thinks, to comment freely and be blissfully unaware of the attention you are attracting. That is the beautiful thing about innocent ignorance: to be able to make the comments that everyone is thinking, however outlandish they are, but which other people would never express. John can't help but feel like a mother when he is called upon to advise Sherlock on correct public mannerisms. People forgive children for making bold and blunt observations because it's accepted they don't know better.

Sherlock falls into that category, John decides; it's just that nobody else realises.

Arriving at the next stop, the doors are pulled apart and commuters are once again gushing out like speeding gazelles chased by a cheetah. Sherlock, a piece of driftwood in a ranging sea, is seemingly unable to stand his ground. Pushed around like a ragdoll he eventually finds himself thrown up against John who has taken refuge in the corner, leaning against the back of the carriage. The carriage's occupants depart, brushing against Sherlock's back without a care and new ones take their place. Sherlock doesn't attempt to pull away.

They remain pressed up against each other, John's forehead barely touching Sherlock's chest and the other man's head bent down so his cheek rubs against John's temple. They can feel their heartbeats speeding and chests rising and falling rapidly as hot puffs of air are released. In the stifling conditions of the rumbling train, nobody notices their proximity or flushed faces. They glance at each other briefly and then look down before lifting their eyes again.

After a few moments, Sherlock clears his throat. "If we were in a taxi, at least we'd be sitting down right now," he murmurs softly into his ear, noticeably hoarse.

Despite the discomfort of the unventilated carriage, John still prefers this set-up and grins in response.

* * *

Sherlock is like a miniature whirlwind at the beginning of a case. At Parnell's house, he searches for all clues to where the man could have gone, looking at receipts in the bin, papers on the desk, and e-mails on the computer. On the other hand, John glances at the photos on the wall of a happy man with a family.

To Sherlock, people are the sum of the scraps of selective evidence he considered relevant. To John, they are real people with real lives.

Then they are out the door again.

London is obviously Sherlock's city. It is like an infinite adventure playground of new surprises and new obstacles. Sherlock moves through it quickly and effortlessly, enjoying the challenges it presents and the ways to overcome them. He knows its streets and its transport routes; he knows London's useful and colourful characters and where they spend their days from the homeless to the high society; he knows the major attractions and the lesser known and sometimes more useful institutions; he knows the smells, the history, the geography…

Sherlock doesn't just see London; he sees what London can be. He can mould it into whatever he wants; it is subservient to him, serving his purposes. Despite its familiarity, every time he ventures out on a case, the ease with which he meanders through London makes it new and exciting. John follows because with Sherlock, everything is a grand adventure.

John had always thought it was necessary to travel to far off lands to find adventure. When he met Sherlock, he learnt he just needed the imagination to use his surroundings effectively and the ability to bend it to his will.

In the end, their search is simple. Talking to a few people who had seen Parnell over the course of an evening: a casino manager, a bartender, a dancer. An expensive car not in its garage, a GPS phone tracker still blinking away. Twenty minutes later and they are in a car park in Brixton.

"It's all fun and games and then you find a dead body," John murmurs sadly, looking Parnell's still and cold body in his car, splashed with blood.

"Of course," Sherlock replies with enthusiasm and John can almost see him rubbing his hands together in glee. The bleakness is lost on Sherlock. "Before it was a treasure hunt. Now, it's a mystery and that is _far _more interesting."

* * *

"You shouldn't be so mean to her, you know," John comments, watching as Molly scuttles out of the morgue to make Sherlock's coffee. As if it could be the key to his heart. A plentiful supply of interesting corpses is Sherlock's weak spot not the pretty butterfly clips she had added to her hair upon hearing Sherlock was arriving.

Sherlock heads straight to examine the body, obviously happy that he's removed all annoying people.

"I'm not being mean, how am I being mean?" he inquires indignantly, picking up the foot. "She offered me coffee."

John smiles. "She always offers you coffee, Sherlock. And you always accept just to send her away. I know you must have noticed that she only offers you coffee."

Sherlock just shrugs, too preoccupied with the engrossing task of examining the corpse. "I have said and done nothing to imply that you wouldn't want coffee as well if that's the problem."

"No, you haven't. And neither have I."

"So, why would she withhold coffee from you?"

John throws up his hands and laughs. "Are you being deliberately thick? I don't _want _coffee. It's not about bloody coffee, Sherlock."

Sherlock drops the arm without care and looks up at him in exasperation. "Don't talk in riddles, John, it doesn't suit you. And seeing how this conversation is turning back on itself I suggest we terminate it now."

John, enjoying the slight squirming he is producing in Sherlock when discussing the fairer sex, refuses to let go. "Why don't you just go out with her once?"

"Why!" Sherlock immediately cries, dropping the foot. "I have no interest in doing so."

"Because what you're doing is a bit cruel, Sherlock. Just take her bowling and let her down gently."

Sherlock looks at him in abstract horror at John's suggestion. "Bowling!"

"Well, ice skating probably sends out the message."

"The location and its message are irrelevant because I do not engage socially with women, John, unless I am forced to for work purposes. Just…no. And don't bring up the subject again." He pulls a face and continues to examine the body.

Molly re-enters with the coffee, offering it timidly to Sherlock who takes it without a glance at her. His interest is solely focused on the body, in particular the mutilated left hand. So she bends down as well, her face coming into close proximity with Sherlock's in an effort to make him engage her in conversation. Her heartbroken face as Sherlock clears his throat and shuffles away (in what he must have considered innocuous but, in fact, is truly obvious) almost makes John pity her…if the whole scene hadn't taken on an element of slapstick.

Sherlock cares about girls and dating about as much as an eight year old boy does. John can almost believe he would add a modification of the phrase _girls are icky _to the end of any sentence concerning them. Sherlock had obviously never had a playground marriage; he was too busy investigating the composition of soil in different parts of the playground, looking down on the other children using the climbing frame structure as a makeshift wedding chapel.

He lets loose a minor sound, trying to contain his laughter but it is only amplified by the sterile environment of the morgue. Sherlock and Molly look up in confusion.

"Sorry…dust," he offers, smirking. Sherlock lips twitch slightly at the obviously deliberate poor attempt to hide his humour.

"Where are the fingers?" Sherlock suddenly asks, without taking his eyes off John.

Molly's glance bounces between the pair, their private ability to communicate lost on her. She doesn't know how to make Sherlock smile outside of offering him dead bodies. "There were no fingers brought in with the body."

At least she has the miniscule, if short-lived, satisfaction of diverting Sherlock's attention from John.

* * *

"I found them!" Sherlock shouts from the hallway, running into the kitchen, where John is preparing food for the evening's dinner. With a diet consisting only of coffee and the occasional Rivita biscuit, John is responsible for ensuring that man doesn't lose any more weight.

On the table next to John's chopping board, Sherlock dumps five small objects.

"Urgh, Sherlock. Those are fingers. A man's fingers."

"Unimpressive deduction for a doctor. Of course they're fingers!" Sherlock cries excitedly. "They're Graham Parnell's fingers. I found them in a bin near the car park where he was found."

John sighs in exasperation. "Oh my God, Sherlock, they were in the rubbish bin? They're now on the kitchen table. Where I'm cutting sausages to put into the pasta."

Sherlock smiles with wry amusement. "Well, I am confident in your anatomical ability to determine the difference between human fingers and Cumberland's. Why, what's the problem?"

John looks at him exasperated. "I know the difference between fingers and sausages, Sherlock. It's just a bit unsanitary to have five decomposing fingers in the kitchen."

"Then you should be grateful I didn't find the toes as well."

"Is that meant to be funny?"

Sherlock looks at him in genuine bemusement. "No, why should it be funny? The body had no left toenails as well as fingers but I'm surprised I couldn't find them in any of the nearby bins."

Sherlock proceeds to ignore John's attempts to continue cooing and picks each finger up, one by one, examining them carefully. John instantly grimaces but the detective takes no notice. John wonders if Sherlock had always been like this. Had he always insisted on showing things he'd uncovered in the outside world. Like a boy who found a worm or snail in the garden and insisted on bringing this new find inside to proudly display. It was always the most fascinating discovery of a lifetime.

After a few moments, Sherlock is triumphant. "At least one of these fingers had a ring on it at some point."

"So?" John asks apathetically, tossing the knife to the table in defeat. His appetite is diminishing faster than his patience, which he considers an improvement.

"So? How can you be so indifferent? Where are they now? Why cut the fingers off one hand but not the other? Same with the toes. Not for identity purposes, obviously." He pauses for a moment, and then spins around dramatically to head out the door again. "We have to go."

"Sherlock! Dinner! The fingers?"

His voice is muffled from his halfway descent down the stairs. "Just put them in one of the Tupperware boxes and put it in the fridge. Leave them next to the moths."

Somewhere in the vicinity of the cooker, water overflows, hissing in displeasure. John grabs his coat, shoving his arms through it and cleans up quickly before he can lose sight of Sherlock.

"Great, kebab for dinner again," he grumbles to himself. He takes a deep breath and sighs as he puts the evidence in their fridge. It's strange how this is becoming normal. "I suppose it beats pasta with fingers and frozen moths for desert."

* * *

John is round the back of Parnell's house when he hears the unmistakable sound of a gunshot ring out. He runs to the end of the street as fast as he can, fearing the worst and arrives in time to see Sherlock stumble down the steps of the large house. He can vaguely make out the shape of a man in the distance, running away from them. Sherlock, of course, is trying to follow, and in such a rush, he slips and practically falls down the stairs.

"Sherlock, you're bleeding," John remarks with ghostly horror as he catches up with him and puts his own gun away. He doesn't know why he's shocked; this day was bound to come. However, he had hoped to at least be present when Sherlock decided to run straight into death without a care.

"Obviously, I've just been shot at."

"Let me look at it." It was at times like this that John was tempted to give in and buy a man bag, if just to hold medical supplies for these excursions with Sherlock.

"It's just a scratch," Sherlock responds, struggling to his feet with John's support, prepared to continue running after the man not only with a bleeding arm but a bruised ankle too.

John grabs his other arm and hauls him back. "Scratches don't trickle down your arm to your hand. Let me look at it, you idiot! It must hurt."

"No, not really. Adrenaline is currently numbing is affects." Sherlock, distracted, pulls free but his ankle gives way and he inadvertently shouts in frustration. "John, will you let _go_, he's getting away!"

"He's already away, Sherlock," John retorts, gently manoeuvring a preoccupied Sherlock, still looking down the street where the gunman had disappeared, to sit on the steps outside Parnell's house. He didn't even notice that John was lifting up his coat sleeve and his shirt to inspect the wound. "You weren't going to catch him, hobbling like Bambi anyway."

There is a bloody mess on Sherlock's arm. Nothing horrific or life threatening, but nonetheless a flesh wound, capable of leaking enough blood to make it appear serious. John can feel the adrenaline and fear drain out of him with the assurance that Sherlock would be all right. Sherlock, on the other hand, had gone from complete unawareness of his own injury to squirming in discomfort.

"Ow, ow!" Sherlock cries, looking down at his arm in annoyance. "What are you doing?"

John, exasperated, shakes his head. "Trying to work out how deep it is."

"Well, tenderness if obviously not part of your Hippocratic repertoire."

"And patience is in none of yours. Will you hold still, Sherlock? I can't look at it if you keep moving." Sherlock doesn't respond but sulks instead on the step. He flinches again as John lifts his shirt up over his elbow. "It'll need cleaning and a couple of stitches but my kit's back at the flat. Up you get."

"I don't need babying," Sherlock grumbles, but now less resisting as he allows himself to be lifted up.

They hobble to catch a nearby taxi, Sherlock leaning against his friend for more support than is strictly necessary. John keeps the tissue clamped over his arm as they are driven back to Baker Street, trying to ignore the occasional hissing and groaning every time the taxi bumps and turns. It seems that Sherlock is mortal after all… John had been wondering. However, he isn't entirely certain Sherlock would have noticed his injury until much later if John hadn't pointed out the seriousness of it.

"Who do you think he was? And what do you think he was after," John asks, trying to distract Sherlock from his pain.

It seems to work. In a sudden burst of enthusiasm, Sherlock reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small leather bound book, placing it on his lap. "The rings, they were microphones, very small state of the art recording devices. That must have been why they cut off his fingers post mortem. The killers realised what they were. That's what they were looking for."

"What _was _he doing?"

"I suspect he was on a mission. And I think whatever it was, we'll find it in here."

"Well, whatever it was, he obviously bit off more than he could chew," John observes, the worry at the sudden turn of the case evident in his tone. He bites his lip and his hand tightens on Sherlock's arm.

Now it was Sherlock's turn to distract him. "John," he murmurs, leaning his head on the doctor's shoulder. "My arm hurts."

John giggles a high pitched sound so uncharacteristic for a soldier who had braved the horrors of war. "You were shot at, you idiot."

* * *

When Sherlock kisses him for the first time that evening, it is nervous and hesitant.

They had been looking through Graham Parnell's diaries, mass scribblings of a man so possessed by fear that his words fell over each other, scrambling desperately for some finish line. No written thought was coherent, no piece of the paper free from scratchy black ink. John feels sad and depressed reading through the notes of a man whose last few months had obviously been filled with despair for both himself and his family. He feared being discovered.

_When I was younger, I always wanted to be a spy. _John laughs morosely. He, like many young boys of his generation, had grown up watching James Bond. The sun had set on the days of Cowboys and Indians. Spying had looked exciting: travelling around the world, getting into daring escapades on land, sea and air and using futuristic technology. It was, understandably, any boy's dream. The reality, as reflected by Graham Parnell, is far more sobering.

"Why didn't Mycroft tell us he was a spy working for him?"

"For national security purposes," Sherlock answers. "It's one thing to explicitly state the man we were searching for was a spy. It's something entirely different if we were to stumble across it. I also think Mycroft likes to appear mysterious."

"I'm not sure how Mycroft thought it was avoidable," John answers. "I mean, you were undoubtedly going to find out."

Sherlock presses his fingers together and rests them against his lips in consideration. "Mycroft's man got himself killed. Obviously he now needs someone who he is certain can actually complete the assignment started."

It's weird, John thinks, as he shakes his head, the nuances of the Holmes brothers. One is incapable of expressing his pride and trust in his brother; the other unable to accept his brother thought so. It is the pinnacle of stubbornness. Then the thought descends on him that sometimes, he and Harry are no better. They are just more verbal. Sometimes even physical when the situation necessitated it.

"Right, so Mycroft's playing MI6 at the moment, then." John picks up another letter. "Must be hard, to lead a double life, pretending to be one person and then another."

Sherlock huffs, flopping back on the sofa with violent rigour. "On the contrary, people do it every day without noticing. They pretend to be different to certain people in certain situations. It's a human method of adapting."

John smirks in response and leans back too, his arm brushing against Sherlock's where the rolled up shirtsleeve showed precise stitches, covered by a bandage. "Except for you."

Sherlock turns his head to regard him inquisitively, their faces inches away from each other. "Well, you don't feel the need to adjust your personality unless it really calls for it. You're perfectly happy to be yourself to whoever you meet and wherever you are."

"Some people are just better actors than others."

"I always figured you kept your secrets well hidden."

Sherlock doesn't tear his eyes away. "More than you know."

Then, Sherlock leans forward, the sofa squelching from the movement and his shirt rustles as his arm reaches over to rest on John's knee. He kisses him, chastely, carefully, with barely any movement and hardly any sound. John closes his eyes and breathes in allowing the feel of Sherlock's dry lips on his to cast his mind blank of all thoughts and sensations except this simple, intimate act. Sherlock's kissing him and it feels _magical_. He hears Sherlock release a small breathy moan from the back of his throat, causing a shiver to tumble down John's spine but he doesn't increase the pressure. He allows the kiss to remain static and introductory, almost tentative as their mouths barely open.

Sherlock lets go of his lips slowly, and in one fluid motion, sits upright. John opens his eyes and is greeted with the sight of the world's only consulting detective – arrogant genius – looking at him with such nervous trepidation that John would never have thought possible to witness. His high cheekbones are dusted with a slight flush; the tiny smile creeping across his face is a mixture of hope with increasing worry; and his eyes dart from John to the spot just behind John's on the wall opposite.

John thinks it's remarkable. Sherlock Holmes seemed to have taken on the role of a nervous schoolboy finally plucking the courage to act on a secret crush. To ease him out of his current predicament, John smiles and clasps his hand tightly before initiating the next bold kiss, first sweeping across his cheek before slipping down to his jaw, his earlobe and then his neck.

Suddenly, they're both away with the fairies.

* * *

Sherlock spends the next day analysing the letters and diary entries, picking apart the end of a man's life through his riddles and fervent ramblings. By the end of the day, he has located something, which spurs him onto his next task: staking out the people who Parnell had been so focused on.

Whenever Sherlock left in the evening with various supplies, John was always tempted to shout, 'don't stay out too late.' It was always completely futile as Sherlock fully intended to be absent for a few days, conducting an investigation on his own. He would take his supplies and disappear into the night.

It appeared Sherlock preferred the solitary man concept and still liked to play alone in one man games.

Still, something had obviously changed because Sherlock felt an undeniable urge to text him pointless little comments every time they were apart as if they were on this stake out together. John knew he wasn't a psychiatrist, but he couldn't help but wonder if he, as Sherlock's only understanding friend, was someone Sherlock had become dependent on.

If anything, the barrage of texts assured John that Sherlock wasn't getting himself entangled in a situation which would result in any damage…to himself or anybody else.

To: John Watson  
Bored. Nothing's happening. Sitting on a box outside. Forgot to bring umbrella. Do we have an umbrella? SH  
Received: 23.02

In fact, he misses the first text, making use of the shower whilst there was hot water still available. He only notices because it was Sherlock's phone that beeps at him a few moments after he settles in front of the television with his tea. Sherlock never left his phone anywhere...Sherlock, the finickity bastard, had taken his instead.

To: J. Watson  
The music on your iphone is appalling. Who is Tinie Tempah and why can't he spell his own name? SH  
Received 23.29

To: Sherlock Holmes  
No idea. Like I would know who he is, it's Harry's phone. Sounds terrible, though. There might be some classical music on there.  
Received 23.33

To:  
Tchaikovsky's 1812 overture, Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata and Grieg's Flight of the Bumblebee. Boring. Predictable. Unimaginative. SH  
Received 23.35

To: Sherlock Holmes  
I didn't say it would be good classical music. It's either that or British rap (I wiki'd him).  
Received 23.41

To: J. Watson  
You took a while to reply. Are you making tea? SH  
Received: 23.42

To: Sherlock Holmes  
Of course. Found all the coffee mugs in the bathroom, though. Why? Thought I might settle down and watch X Factor. Standard Saturday night television for those of us not on stake outs.  
Received 23:45

To: J. Watson  
Fungus experiment. Not dangerous. Why do you feel your head with this inconsequential and self gratuitous nonsense? SH  
Received: 23.48

To: Sherlock Holmes  
I did think of hiding all the stuff that you didn't clean up in the living room when I told you to. You will definitely clean all the coffee mugs tomorrow. Btw, we need to buy freeview.  
Received: 23.53

To J. Watson  
Why, so we have a larger choice of pointless programmes? I'd find them instantly; your hiding places are never original if the sulphuric acid in the medicine cabinet is anything to go by. SH

To: Sherlock Holmes  
Freeview has that logic programme you like on BBC4. And you still had to go and find your stuff. It took you ages to find the violin. Bow's still missing. I'm happy with small victories.  
Received: 23.59

To: J. Watson  
Return my bow and I will buy freeview. Plus new pillows. The ones in your bedroom are too flat. SH  
Received: 00.01

Sherlock doesn't reply again after John agrees. Obviously, his long stake out had produced something tangible. Hopefully not dangerous. John spends a stupidly long time glancing at the phone every few seconds hoping it will blink at him again.

* * *

Most of the time, Sherlock can't sleep because his mind is constantly in overdrive. It is thinking, imagining, processing extrapolating. It looks back on the day's events and conjures up ways to continue them without any consideration of the need for a respite in between.

John imagines that if he possessed the mental and physical ability to actually wrestle Sherlock into a bed (whether that be his own of John's) and metaphorically tuck him in, the man would just re-emerge again a few minutes later. Like a child at the bottom of the stairs asking, _can I please stay up a little longer? _They would repeat the cycle all over again.

Yet even Sherlock, with a seemingly inexhaustible supply of adrenaline pumping through his veins, eventually has to crash. After he's paced around the whole apartment, clutching at his hair, muttering unintelligible sentences and throwing a few apparently useless books to the floor, he flops spectacularly onto the sofa. He then spends ten minutes plucking manically at the violin strings (John hadn't returned his bow yet). Finally, twenty minutes later, after noticing that peace has settled on the flat for an alarming amount of time, John swivels in his seat only to find Sherlock asleep.

Smiling to himself, John shuts down his laptop and kneels down beside the sofa. He gently takes off Sherlock's shoes and places a blanket over him because there is no way Sherlock will reach his bed tonight. Happy that blood isn't still seeping through the bandage on his arm after he returned home from his excursion, he revels in the peace that has finally descended on the flat. Sometimes the day's fun (or in Sherlock's case, three day of fun) was just too much and exhaustion, thankfully, has to prevail.

He sits on the floor beside Sherlock's head, picking up Parnell's diary. He was finding too many contrasts between this man's life and his own. Two men who had searched for adventure and had chosen careers which sounded like it would fulfil all their boyhood fantasies; instead it destroyed them.

He thinks, as he hears Sherlock breathing rhythmically beside him, that maybe the detective had saved him at just the right moment.

* * *

John has wondered for a while, in this Peter Pan analogy he had been concocting, if he has taken on the role of Wendy. All he seemed to do was look after Sherlock, make sure he slept, drank and ate and patched him up in between scuffles. At one point, as John moseyed round Sainsbury's, he had been tempted to buy multi coloured plasters with balloons on them – for his own amusement, of course.

Even now, as they stand at the entrance to a dark house in Brixton, John is worried. This is where their investigation and Sherlock's obsession had taken them, to the front door of a British diplomat who was involved in human and drug trafficking into Britain. A world that had resulted in Parnell's merciless death.

"Sherlock, we should wait for Lestrade," John hisses.

"Come on, John, are you asking me to abandon the case when it is finally reaching its end? And have Lestrade take all the credit?"

"No, I want you to temporarily hold the case so we don't almost get killed," John whispers fiercely. "Again! They've already killed Parnell and tried to kill you."

"So, you _don't_ want to know what's behind the door?"

And in that instant John realises, he isn't Wendy. He is a Lost Boy. He'd come back from Afghanistan, bewildered and isolated, unwilling to face the realities of civilian life again. This world where everyone played by the rules stifled him, it was caving in on him.

Then there was Sherlock, this enigmatic figure who he could follow to the end because he'd given him direction. If John was so worried, he would never follow Sherlock out into London's wilderness. Instead, Sherlock had proven it was possible to still have adventures, wherever you are, however old you are. For that reason, John follows him into unknown scenarios. It isn't a paradise, but it is close enough.

Sherlock strives to uncover the potential of the never-ending adventure. John will join him.

Because for Sherlock, safety, just like bills and social etiquette, is a restraint on the potential excitement of life. It should be about enjoyment, keeping occupied with new and wonderful things. So long as Sherlock could keep himself occupied on another case. So long as there are games to play. The environment is what you make it, a never ending playground if you had the imagination and thrill seeking drive to make it so. Like Sherlock, John's thirst for venture could not be quenched.

Anywhere could be a Neverland.

There could be anything behind that door.

John rushes up the last few steps, holding Sherlock by the lapels of his coat and kissing him with such force that it pushes him against the wall. Sherlock quickly recovers and wraps one arm around his waist, and rests a hand on the back of his head, responding passionately to John's physical declaration of loyalty.

"You will be the death of me someday," John whispers softly.

Sherlock smiles wickedly against his lips. "Me too," he answers.

And John was reminded of that line in Peter Pan, the one that had always resonated nervously within him, having been said by the titular child. As Sherlock smiles at him, exhilaration mixing with arousal flashing in those eyes before he knocks on the door, John thinks no one had ever taken into account that even adults didn't want to grow up. Because the older you are, the more conformity tightens its grip on you.

That's why Mycroft watches out for him.

He remembers watching helplessly from a distance as Sherlock lifted up a pill to the bright light; his eyes transfixed in contemplative wonder as he slowly lowered it to his mouth. And he understands.

_To die will be an awfully big adventure._

END

Ta-da! Virtual cookies to you all!


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